Kennt His Faither - Mary Johnston. From the online review in Sphinx 8
You can order these stories without the CD—but don’t. Unless you’re a natural to the tongue,
you need the author’s voice reading the tales aloud to animate them. Once you hear them,
the Doric becomes a living reality, and an aural feast to any lover of language.
The delight of the telling is in the language, as well as the wry observation of ordinary people.
In her preface, Sheena Blackhall suggests that the tales “are shortsome bit fu of virr” and
she’s right. How could anyone not fall for a September moon described as “a gowden
penny in i glimmerin howe o i night keekin throu i haggertie-taggertie cloods”? (There’s a
detailed glossary at the back so you can check out words you don’t know.)
But there’s much here that is universal both in expression and sentiment, not least the
mother of a boy who has died far away from home, and who cries out to another mother—
Mary herself—“Hoo mony mair sons killt afore e warld comes til its sense, hoo mony hert-sair
mothers like us, hoo mony mair?”
Helena Nelson
and from Lallans
Here we hae a clekkin o five yairns on biblical thames bi Mary Johnston cawed Kieran an Aidan,
Beldie's Loon, Five Airches, Prison Visit an Kennt his Faither. 'Kieran an Aidan' is wrutten frae
mither Eve's pynt o view, anent the hame lyfe o Cain an Abel at the back o Bennachie. The yairns
ir skreivit in a vairsion o Scots, here cryit the Doric, the hamespun name that uist ti be uised for
spoken Scots in general, but nou aften uised for North-East Scots in parteiklar. Amang sum fowk
in North East Scotland, the'r a norie that whit is nou cryit Buchan, is a leid in its ain richt, wi nae
connection wi Scots, the State leid o Scotland afore 1603.
A hae nae dout that thir braw yairns richtlie represent the saul o the leid Mary Johnston wes
brocht up ti speak. Thay ir a richt guid read, hae artistic merit, an the'r nae dout about thair
expressive pouers.
David Purves
The Heart is Always Full—Jo Gibson. From Sphinx 8
This is a first collection from a founder member of the Dunbar writing group. It’s attractively presented
with a heart on the cover made up from a collage of words—worries, reasons, destiny, loved, clouds,
questions etc. Between the covers lie 38 mainly short poems, often two to a page. This creates a
varied selection box, easy to dip in and out of, and there’s plenty here that’s pleasurable, accessible
reading, often capturing a simple idea or moment. In some ways the quantity of small moments,
modest events, contributes to the richness of the collection.
Generally I thought there was some attractive writing here, and some poems that opened especially
well. I did not always think the clarity carried right through, but this is a first collection. The magic
of a poem often works best when there is no fancy language and nothing clever going on, hard as
it is to have faith in this fact. And yet it is beautifully artful to get a lovely effect like this the three
lines that makes up the whole of ‘Crow’:
I love to see crows fly,
how they catch and carry the light on their wings
as they take the horizon home.
You can hear the circle of the sound there—through the ‘i’ in “fly” and then continued in “light”,
shortening in “wings”, longer again in “horizon” and finally softening and remembering the ‘O’ in
“crow” by coming “home”. I’m simplifying what the vowels are doing, but listen to it for yourself.
That’s meaning and music, hand in hand. Mainly we call this poetry.
Helena Nelson
A Blessing of Unicorns - Mercedes Clarasó. From Sphinx 8
The Common Reader comments:
The writer clearly loves unicorns. They become a symbol of just about everything.
Normally I don’t think of unicorns very much but A Blessing of Unicorns had such
a unique title that I had to read on to see why unicorns are a “blessing”.
I bumped into unicorns in every poem. They were all over the place. I couldn’t move
for unicorns. Considering the title, I don’t know why this surprised me. People with
imagination will love this pamphlet. My favourite poem was ‘Walking with Unicorns’
which has a very satisfying ending:
I feel its gentle warmth
encircle me. It leads
me to new fields, it leads
me home.
Barbara Smith is a fine poet in her own right, and so it was particularly heartening to read this
characteristically generous and warm review in her blog:
Downside Up - Anne Connolly
A curious thing happens when you read the poetry of someone who has lived in exile from their
birth country for a while. You are forced to face the issues that you might have dodged in your
own work; issues of religion or politics, as well as people and places that evoke strong connections
to your own way of thinking.
Anne Connolly’s accomplished chapbook, Downside Up, faces these issues implacably; affording
us a good hard stare at life as it has been lived in Ulster as well as in Ireland too. Poems such as
‘The Price of Petrol,’ take us back to the 70s, to a time of petrol shortages and sectarian preferential
treatment. But this poem cannily reflects the present as well: ‘ “How’re ye Wullie?” / “Disappointed.” ’
It’s how little words like ‘Disappointed’ can wholly capture the resigned feeling of that time.
All one could do was to quietly endure, when you were refused petrol at the station in favour of
someone like ‘John Citizen,’ who
marches,
holds a banner in his hand
and on bonfire night
his boys laugh
as they burn
a well-stuffed pope.
Connolly leaves it as it is: the actions of the small (minded) community speak for themselves.
But her poems go far outside the hold of the near-polemic as well. There’s a strong lyrical touch
about her work that reminds me of John Hewitt, in the use of townland names in a poem like ‘ Sky Road;’
‘Derrygimlagh bog,’ ‘the tail of Clifden bay. Connolly easily straddles the border in Ireland,
drawing out the essentials of all myths and legends, whether it is a recent tale, such as the landing
of a Vickers Bomber in a western Irish bog, in ‘ Sky Road,’ or ‘the ancient tumulus of Newgrange…
her belly pregnant with the dead,’ in ‘Solstice.’ In this latter poem, Connolly imagines ‘Kings lie
at Newgrange waiting… long[ing] for luminescence, / the solar triumph.’ She catches completely
the significant essence of Newgrange, without resorting to over worn clichés, bringing it shining
into the modern era.
I admit that poems like ‘Aran’ lie close to my own interests and interpretations. In this poem
Connolly uses the interwoven lines to underscore the intricacy of the stitches described, as
well as their ascribed meanings. I remember my mother explaining the meaning of the stitches
that go into making up an Aran pattern; each islander family had it’s own specific set of stitches
used, and these explanations are deftly ‘knitted’ together in this poem.
I think one of the reasons why I’ve responded to Anne Connolly’s work so deeply, is because
I find strong echoes of own themes and meanings. In Anne’s ‘Reflections,’ I see Heaney’s ‘Peeling
Potatoes,’ one of the Glanmore Sonnets he wrote in memory of his mother; and which in turn
sparked off my own ‘Roosters.’ In Anne’s ‘Reflection,’ her mother ‘peel[s] potatoes / elbows
leaning on the sink edge.’ In that sparse economy we have a woman getting on with the everyday
chores that must be done; her ‘Jesus, Mary, Joseph’ the refrain of many a woman in pain. The life
before is succinctly captured as, ‘Her dancing days lay / at the bottom of the drawer,’ inverting
the old-fashioned trousseau drawer as something that holds memories of a former life, rather
than a future.
Connolly’s work is deservedly garnering attention in Scotland, where she resides now, but I would
hope for a wider audience for her pamphlet, Downside Up, in Northern Ireland, and indeed across
the hazy border into the Republic. I hope to see more of her work soon.
The Biggers and other poems by David C Purdie
A review bi Irene Broon (Owerset intae Scots bi the Editor)
DAVID C. PURDIE is a weel kent name areddies, no juist in the warld o Scottish poetry. This is weel seen bi the dedications he haes makit tae fowk in the warld o writin, politics, minin, architecture, an the airts as weel of coorse as tae his ain close faimly. He beirs the gree o sindry poetry competeitions an awards, sae A’m fair taen aback that this is his first ingaitherin o poems.
The title poem, The Biggers, an a puckle o the ithers, is foondit on his ain experience warkin as a jyner. His wark is splattered wi biggin tairms an wirds an he herks back tae youthheid days as an apprentice laddie in “bib an brace” dongerees playin “denner time fitba” in Assembly Haa. There a real souch o cless consciousness an aw in this poem whan he writes aboot “cockapentie chiels” bein “faur abuin puir scuffie jyners”, that he maun hiv felt fair snell in thae days. He seems tae mak a nod tae Robert Garioch bi referrin tae the Edinburgh Festival as “...the Embro Ploy...”. In Ravines whaur he writes aboot the auld closes an wynds o Edinburgh an thair history, he maks the ironic consait aboot hou warkin fowk is screivit oot o history, “Nae screivers nor minstrels will mind them”. Clearly, Purdie is makin up for thon noo. There humour an aw in the poems as in the English The Birth of Poems an The Muntain an the Man an The Michty Scotsman. A dinnae ken Purdie’s beliefs, but there a lot o religious references for exemplar in The Tulchan an Sanct Hub’s. His love o his faimly comes ower richt strang.
His maist hertfelt poem in the pamphlet is The Daith Tree. Agane Purdie taps intae his knawledge o jynery an wuid tae conneck the life o Jesus as the son o a carpenter, an maist like, an apprentice ane, wi his daith on a piece o wuid. The very title is strang. It‟s ne‟er cried a cross or crucifix. Daith Tree says it aw. He writes hou Jesus “...learnt tae dunt the stobs hame...”an then cleeks thon tae the very crucifixion itsel “...whan they drave the stobs in, He kent hoo mony dings...”.
The dowie circle o his life stertin an endin wi the formin an shapin o wuid is clear tae see in the poem.
“...The bluid weeked doon the daith-tree,
Like roset dreeps doon pine.”
In the pamphlet’s efterword, Lydia Robb tells that this poem haes been read frae a guid puckle poopits. A wad jalouse there wad be nae drappin aff in the pews whan thon kythed!
O the 36 poems in the pamphlet, 21 is screivit in Scots. Purdie’s writin in Scots seems tae fleet mair natural like than his English poems, for aw that they’re aw weel craftit. Fower o thae Scots poems is ower-settins o the 19th century Dorset poet, William Barnes. A’m no weel acquent wi the original wark sae A can juist read thae poems as new. It strikes me that the Scots Purdie screives in is weel suited tae the Dorset poems o Barnes. The ootcome is that the poems hae a feel o the Kailyaird style, that maun be unavoidable whan owersettin wark aboot the rural idyll o the 19th century. For aw that some o his wark is written in free verse, Purdie seems tae favour rhythm, rhyme an particlar styles, the likes o the Villanelle in Merle on a Rowan. His In Praise o Standart Habbie , that gies mair nor a nod at Robert Fergusson’s Elegy on the Death of Scots Music in its souch, is evidence o this. In Boswells Coort, Purdie luiks back tae his days as an apprentice laddie in the fifties warkin at whit is noo the restaurant cried The Witchery. He screives o the fowk that haed bid there, the likes o Mistress Gordon that wrate Flouers o the Forest an gentry gaun awa back tae the Dukes o Gordon, an hou on pey day thae young jyners “...nivver gied a bugger for ony screivers , nor dukes nor gentry either.” Let’s howp things haes chynged thae days.
© Irene Broon
From Wittins